


Obsession and Enslavement

by darkphoenixreal (phoenixreal)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mycroft, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fans, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Sherlock, M/M, Military John, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Obsession, Protective John, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/darkphoenixreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Sherlock and John are already together before the beginning of the story, John works for Mycroft, and John met Sherlock as a boy because his father was the Holmes family physician.  John goes away for three years to the Middle East to work with the military under covert ops specifically for Mycroft's "people".  Mycroft in this is extremely powerful and influential, and may go a bit OOC.</p><p>Sherlock is on scene for a crime and receives a couple phone calls that confuse Anderson and Donovan to no end.  Then, as his investigation continues, he finds himself kidnapped by the killer they're after.  The bodies did bear a striking resemblance to the consulting detective...  John and Mycroft show up, and turns out there's more to Sherlock's personal life than they ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Secret Lover of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> In Revision and continuation.

 A strange feeling of bubbling excitement crawled its way up Sherlock’s throat.  Three years, three long years had passed them.  He couldn’t believe that it had been three years already!  Well, almost.  But he was coming home early, Mycroft said.  And he was ecstatic.  So that night, he got off the Skype call and practically floated out the door to the crime scene.  Only a little while longer…

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said from the doorway.  “What the hell took you so long?” he groused.

Sherlock shrugged.  “Previous engagement,” he said lightly and stepped under the yellow tape, snapping a set of gloves onto his hands.  “Not like a body is going anywhere.”

Anderson stood against the wall, arms crossed over his body with a scowl planted on his face.  “About time,” he growled, rolling his eyes.  Sally stood beside him, shaking her head.  Sherlock ignored them, and went about what he was doing.  Evidence, observation, and deduction.  Second victim they’d found.  Both had been violently raped and strangled, then dumped in an alley.  Both were riddled with drugs, if he didn’t miss his guess.  The first one had been.

“He’s about the same height, build, and age as the first, tall, dark haired, thirties,” Sherlock said, looking over the form on the ground.  “Ligature marks on the wrists again, same as the first.  Posed in a reclined position against the wall, as though they’d just sat down.” 

He knew there would be no evidence. The bodies were clean, bathed in some sort of bleach solution that destroyed all the evidence on them, and they were dressed in plain white pajamas with a white terry bathrobe.  It was as though the killer was putting on a show for them.  He did so love the cocky ones.

Sherlock’s phone rang, loud in the alley.  He frowned when he looked at the ID and answered it.  “What?”  Sally rolled her eyes at the curt answer.  “I’m at a scene, Mycroft.  Leave me alone until I’m done.  I’ll call…no you didn’t tell me that.  You should have told me, I have a right to know something like that!  What?  You didn’t want to worry me?  Bloody hell, Mycroft!  Really?”  He angrily clicked the button to end the call and shoved it in his pocket.  He scrubbed a hand over his forehead and took a breath.

“Anyway…” he mumbled, turning back to the body.  His phone rang again.  He scowled and answered, “Goddammit Mycroft! Oh, oh, sorry, sorry, no…” he softened immediately.  He moved a little ways off to the side this time, but with the acoustics could be heard by those in the alley.

“I thought it was Mycroft again.  Well, yes I’m angry.  He didn’t tell me!  Well, I should have been told if it concerns you.  You know that I worry already, so it didn’t matter.  I knew there was a reason for you coming home early.  How could you two hide this?  I’m mad at you too, you know.  I should have known.  What?  Oh, crime scene.  Well, yes.  I know, I know.  No I’m not alone, do you honestly think I run all over London alone?  Okay, yes I do.  But not to crime scenes.  Yes, I know.  Yes.  Okay maybe not…I’m sorry.  I just…you know I get busy and forget.  Yes, yes well, you may not be able to forget to eat but I do.  Yes…okay no.  Three days.”  He held the phone away from his ear for a second with a flinch.  “Alright!  I promise, I’ll sleep tonight, okay?  Why can’t I lie to you…” He huffed, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.  “Yes, I am outside.  No, I didn’t leave my coat at home, what are you, my mother now?  Okay, yes you’re worse than Mummy.  No.  Can I go now, since obviously you want to hide things important from me, brat.  Oh, yes, _Captain._   Okay, for fuck’s sake, I will get take out on the way home and be in bed before three.  Okay one.  No earlier, I won’t sleep and you know it.  Not until you get back.  Um...no.  No, oh no you don’t, I’m hanging up before you get started, I am trying to work here.  Call you when I’m home.  Yes, I’ll have food.  You can listen to me eat, how about that.  Okay.”  He walked further away then, the others losing the conversation.

“The hell?” Donovan said, looking to Lestrade.  “I’ve never seen him answer his phone, and never seen him talk so long to someone.”

Lestrade’s brow crinkled in thought.  “Mycroft, the first call was his older brother,” he said softly.

Both Anderson and Donovan gave him a shocked look.  “He has a brother?” she finally asked.

Lestrade nodded.  “Fucking scary goddamned man.  Pray you never meet the bastard.  Two weeks after I met Sherlock and started working with him I literally got black-bagged outside my house and taken to an abandoned warehouse and handcuffed to a steel chair.  He then proceeded to tell me all about his…relationship with his little brother.  Intimidating man, especially when he indicates that if something happens to his brother on my watch I’ll disappear without a trace.”

Donovan and Anderson exchanged a look.  “What?  Who the hell is he, anyway?  Some sort of mobster.”

He shook his head.  “Worse.  I’m not completely sure, but I think he might be MI6.  Sherlock calls him ‘The British Government’, and bitches about him following him with agents.  So next time you see him yelling at someone in a black, non-descript car, you’ll know it’s one of Mycroft’s men.”

“Wow…” Anderson said.  “Someone like that and his little brother is a right wanker and a freak,” he said softly.

“You ever do meet him, don’t insult Sherlock,” Lestrade said, standing up straighter as Sherlock came back, his expression blank once again.  “It would be the last thing you did.”

“Have a nice chat with Mycroft?” Lestrade said when he got closer.  Sherlock glowered.  “He is pushing it this time.  Keeping information away from me.  I don’t care about his reasons.  I already had to chase off three cars outside my flat this week.  Only reason I didn’t chase the last one off was because it was too far away and I had to be here,” he said with a sigh, seemingly so distracted he forgot that Anderson and Donovan were standing further back in the alley.  “Then, he goes off and puts stuff in my flat!  Without asking me!  I don’t care how much he thinks I need it.  I didn’t want it.  Maybe I’ll dump it out the window…” he mused, using his magnifier on the body he was looking at.

“What did he put in your flat?” Lestrade asked, amused. 

“A new bedroom set!  Seriously, I think I can pick my own stuff out,” he said sighing.  “I’m not ten years old anymore, though he seems to think I am…  Of course, I have no idea what he did with the old bed, so I guess I have to keep it.”  He turned around and looked up at a CCTV that was at the corner and flipped it off.  “Fuck off, Mycroft, I know you’re watching me.”

The phone rang again.  “Yes I’m testy!   You’ve got me all wound up and I’m trying to think.  Go watch someone else!  I’ll take down the camera, I promise, if you don’t move it,” he said, glaring at the camera.  “I don’t care, I’m standing here with a police officer, I’ll pay the goddamn fine.  Move it, so I know you aren’t spying on me!  I can do without you watching my every move.”  To Anderson and Donovan’s surprise, the camera swiveled upward from where it was pointed.  “Was that so hard, Mycroft?  No I’m not being childish.  Most certainly not!  Good _bye_ Mycroft.  And tell Cecil to quit scaring Mrs. Hudson!  He’s standing right by the door every morning and she thinks she’s being stalked for fuck’s sakes!”

He tapped off and slid the phone back in his pocked, exasperated.  “Well that ruined a perfectly good night,” he growled.

Lestrade snickered.  “She thinks she’s being stalked?”

“Oh yes, every morning she goes to get the paper, and Cecil, one of Mycroft’s idiots, is standing there watching the door.  I mean, you would think spies would be a little more, I don’t know, discreet?” he huffed, kneeling again.

He looked up and glared at the camera which had turned back down and flipped it off again.  “Goddammit Mycroft,” he said, ignoring it.  “He just does it to get me like this.  He knows if I wanted to I could avoid all the cameras in the city.”

He examined the area again and sighed.  “I’m going to the morgue to look at the other body.  I think I have an idea, but I need to compare it to the other.  Tell Anderson to wrap it up.”

He pulled out his phone again, and started tapping furiously, as Donovan and Anderson blinked in surprise.  “Did he really forget we were here?” she asked.

“I think he did.  Whatever Mycroft told him, whatever he had hidden from him, really had him worked up.  Don’t think I’ve seen him like that in all three years I’ve known him,” Lestrade said, watching him disappear into a cab.  “Oh well, if he doesn’t want to tell, he won’t.”

The morgue yielded only more questions for Sherlock.  He stood outside, tapping away on his phone to Lestrade.

_Both victims were held for a week or more then put somewhere cold, like a cooler of some sort, not freezing, but at least at the level to keep something chilled.  Both were drugged with ketamine and several other drugs, mostly muscle relaxers.  Cause of death in both was strangulation by a man with small hands.  The victims were both relatively tall, over six feet.  So, maybe someone who likes to control someone taller than himself?  A power play, maybe.  Will think more.  Took pictures.-SH_

 He exhaled into the cool night air and thought about the conversation with Mycroft and smiled.  Something caught his eye and he glanced to the right, only to have the world explode around him in white sparkling stars that faded into black.  He heard the phone clatter to the ground, and felt his body impact the pavement, and realized someone had just knocked him out cold…

The next morning, Molly Hooper stretched as she came from the basement morgue at St. Barts with a yawn.  She ran down the steps and kicked something.  She frowned and saw a mobile on the ground.  She picked it up, thinking she’d take it to lost and found when she realized it was Sherlock’s phone.  She blinked, turning it over.  It had a screen lock, but there were several missed calls and messages recorded, and the screen was cracked from being dropped.  But the back of the expensive smart phone’s case was engraved with Sherlock Holmes. 

She grabbed her own phone and dialed Lestrade immediately.  Fear was already thumping through her because Sherlock was a ringer for the two men in the morgue, and if the person doing it was after a type, he fit.

“Molly?” Lestrade asked, sleepily.

“Greg, look, I just left work, and I found Sherlock’s phone on the ground by the back entrance,” she said in a rush.  “And he left here last night at around midnight after examining the bodies.  I’m scared, because you know as well as I do, he fits the profile for this guy.”

“Shit,” Lestrade said.  “I’ll be down, wait there, I’ll bring Donovan and Anderson with me.  See if we can find anything, and I have another call to make.”

Molly waited impatiently until three cars pulled up.  Lestrade came out of his, Anderson and Donovan out of the next one, and two men she didn’t know exited a third from the backseat.  Lestrade waited and held his hand up to stop her saying anything until the two men came closer.  They were talking as they got closer.  One was a tallish man with reddish hair and a black umbrella.  He wore a very expensive looking tailored suit.  The other was a shorter, stocky blonde man wearing jeans and a wool jumper with a leather jacket.

“No CCTV back here?” the blonde asked.

“Checked already, they waited until he was just outside the view of the one across the street and the one on the side of the building over there.  They knew where they were,” the other man said solemnly.

They moved up now even with the others.  Lestrade nodded.  “Sargent Sally Donovan,” he said pointing to the woman.  “Phillip Anderson, forensics.  And Molly Hooper, our medical examiner.  Well the one Sherlock prefers to work with.  Only one willing to let him in and take home random body parts.”

The two men nodded to each.  “And this, is Dr. John Watson,” the other man said, indicating the blond.  “And I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother.  Now, since my little brother has gotten himself in a situation, I came as soon as the detective inspector called me.  Is this where you found his phone?”

Molly nodded, handing it over to Mycroft.  He fiddled with it then rolled his eyes.  “He’s still locking things from me.  Ridiculous, I have the overrides to get into his phone remotely.”

John smiled.  “Mycroft, please,” he said, and tapped into it once and shrugged.  “He’s so transparent,” he muttered, and looked.  “Missed calls from me and you, and three messages.  Looks like the message you and I sent last night, and an unknown number…”

“The fuck!” John exclaimed, then looked up.  “Sorry.  Mycroft?  Did you know about this? I thought you monitored his mobile?”

Mycroft groaned, taking the phone and looking at what John had indicated.  “Why can’t he tell me these things?”

“Obviously he didn’t think it was a threat.  You know how many random messages he gets from the website…” John murmured as he flicked through. 

“What is it?” Lestrade asked finally.

John sighed.  “You know how he gets the obsessed ones now and then?  And usually he puts them off quick enough with his sparkling personality.  But this one…  The last week he’s sent Sherlock seventy five text messages.  Sherlock answered the first couple it looks like, then simply ignored the rest.  Maybe he shouldn’t have.”

He handed the phone to Lestrade who glanced at it.  “Wow.  Yeah.  He should have told us…”

The other three looked annoyed a bit at the lack of explanation.  Lestrade shrugged at them.  “Sorry, looks like an obsessive fan of his.  Starts out asking questions about science and deduction and then progresses into more personal information, which is when Sherlock quit answering.  Requests to meet, requests to talk on the phone, and then he starts getting mad because Sherlock doesn’t answer.  Claims that he’s tired of waiting for him to ‘come around’ and then he’ll ‘make him see the truth’.  Then last night, there were three messages around midnight.  ‘Simple enough to prove to you my undying devotion and love.  I’ll see you at midnight.’  Then, ‘Waiting is the hardest part.’  And finally, ‘About time, I’ve already wasted too much time practicing on the other two.’  Oh, shit…what if…do you think…oh no,” Lestrade stammered.

Mycroft stared at him and Lestrade cleared his throat.  “The two bodies, the case we’re working on, Sherlock’s a ringer for both of them.  But now, maybe it isn’t Sherlock who looks like them, maybe it was them that looked like Sherlock.”

“Let me see the bodies,” John said with a sigh.  “And the autopsy reports, the files, anything you have on the case.  And I want to see the two dump sights, and do we know where they were taken from?”

Donovan scowled at him.  “Look, you can’t just waltz in here and demand to run this investigation, we are the ones that are supposed to do this, we don’t need the freak as it is, and we certainly don’t need someone we don’t know coming in and taking over.”

Lestrade paled immediately and took a step back.  Donovan didn’t even realize what she’d said for a moment and then opened her mouth, but before she could Mycroft Holmes shook his head once and turned and left.

“Be nice, John.  Don’t make me have to cover any mysterious deaths up for you.  Again.  Lestrade, if you think I’m bad, John’s worse,” he said smiling wide at the dumbfounded DI.

John’s face hadn’t changed.  “The ‘freak’ as you like to call him is in immediate danger by a psychopathic man with an unhealthy obsession with him and what he does.  He is also very likely to try and escape, and I need to know immediately what kind of location he’s in so we can put men on every possible location.  I’m moving with the authority of the fucking British Government, just so you know, considering that I spent the last three years in Afghanistan working covert ops until I was shot through the shoulder three months ago by an insurgent.  My clearance is higher than the goddamned prime minister, so if anyone is qualified to take over the investigation of the kidnapping of my soon to be husband, Sherlock Holmes, it is me.  Now, either work with me, or stay the fuck out of my way.”

With that, he headed into the building directly to the morgue, stuffing Sherlock’s phone into his pocket, leaving four open mouthed people behind him.


	2. A Dangerous Combination of Love and Obsession

 

Molly stood behind John as he stood at the body examining the corpse with far more ability than she would have initially given him credit for.  She’d been around lots of doctors, and lots of medical examiners, but this John Watson had a way about him that exuded dominance and authority.  She swallowed down a lump in her throat.

“So, you and Sherlock are together, then?” she asked finally, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

He hummed agreement as he palpated areas on the body.  “Yes, we’ve been together since we were teenagers, actually, well, we’ve known each other since childhood, and started dating in our teens, I suppose.”

“How do you know him, anyway?” came Lestrade’s voice as he entered the room with Donovan and Anderson following, still amazed by the recent developments.

John looked up, and sighed.  “I suppose I should get this out of the way, because having a team that is constantly pestering me with inane questions will only slow down finding Sherlock.”

He shoved the tray back into the wall and sat down in a chair and motioned for the others to do the same.  No one else spoke.

“My father worked for the Holmes family at their estate,” he began.

“Estate?” Molly asked.  “You mean they’re like rich people?”

John gave a sideways grin.  “How do you expect that Sherlock works for you basically for free and still manages to have his own flat?  No, his parents were quite wealthy and my father was employed as their private physician.  When my mother died when I was seven, I moved into the small flat that was provided for my father.  It was then I met the Holmes boys.  Let’s see…I think Mycroft was twelve, and Sherlock was five…yes, there’s seven years between them.  Well, I quickly became their shadow.  It didn’t take much, I was personable, and Mycroft was more than happy to show off his impressive skills as a genius.  Then there was Sherlock.  Boy didn’t speak until he was almost six, they thought there was something wrong with him, but he started talking in full sentences like an adult shortly after I moved into the estate, much to Mycroft’s chagrin.  Once Sherlock started talking, I don’t think he ever stopped,” he said, thinking fondly.

“That much hasn’t changed,” Donovan said and John chose to ignore the tone of voice.

John shook his head.  “He was something else.  Mycroft, he knew how to get what he wanted by manipulation from an early age.  Sherlock…he just didn’t get people.  At all.  We’d all go to the playground and he’d say something offhand to another child and they’d go screaming to their mom and he’d get yelled at and then he’d look at me and frown.  ‘Johnny, what’d I do?’ he’d ask me.  I’d laugh at him, and tell him, ‘You know, telling another child their parents are in a divorce is a bit not good, Sherl.’  And he’d think about it and ask me why, and I’d spend about an hour trying to explain why the truth isn’t always right.  And he’d end up so confused that I would give up.  And before the day was out, we’d repeat the same thing.  So it was no surprise when I went away to boarding school he had a hard time.  Then they sent him despite him being two years too young, and of course, he did more than fine, but he stayed in my year.”

John paused again, his eyes going distant for a moment.  “And so began my life as the tall blonde that went everywhere with the short kid that no one liked because he was smarter than them and younger.  I got in so many fights.  No wonder I ended up in the military.  I even punched one of the teachers once…” he said, thoughtfully.  “Bitch told Sherlock that he was only there because his father paid for him and his fancy tricks and games didn’t impress her.  I was calm, told her that Sherlock’s tested IQ was well above normal and she proceeded to continue.  I got suspended for a week.  Sherlock conveniently was sick that week.  No one asked, of course,” he said.  “But anyway, long story short, we were close, and anyone who bothered him, dealt with me because Sherlock would take it.  Every time, it didn’t matter what they did, he never fought back, never yelled, never screamed, just walked away, usually to go play his violin, or read, or blow something up in the chem lab.  Nope, that’s what I was there for.  Of course, then the brat hit a growth spurt when he was fifteen and outgrew me.  Still didn’t change anything except then I was defending him from another sort of problem.  You would not believe the people who try and push someone like him into doing things he doesn’t want to do,” he said, sighing and scratching the back of his head for a moment.

“So Mycroft of course worried when he assigned me for three years.  But he kept an eye on him.  Obviously, not a good enough eye,” he said with a sigh.  “However, my Sherl is good at dodging him.”

John sighed and stood up, obviously done with the details of their private lives he was willing to divulge.  “I’d like to see the scene photos and the evidence bags, now, and a print out of the texts the guy sent to him.  We’re in for a long day.”

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Sherlock groaned as he came too because he _hurt_.  He had a splitting headache that was going to progress into one of his brilliantly horrid migraines if he wasn’t careful.  His shoulders ached too, stiff and sore, and his back muscles felt stretched out.  What the hell?  Then it crashed back.  The blow to the head, falling, and he knew exactly what had happened.  He really had to stop ignoring idiots.  The problem was it was difficult to determine the difference between regular idiots and dangerous idiots.

“Oh, you’re awake!” came an excited voice in the room.  He opened his eyes and blinked to see a young man, perhaps twenty-five, with a mop of brown hair and large hazel eyes.  He smiled and clapped his hands excitedly.  “I was afraid I hit you too hard, I mean I did my research and everything, the right angle and amount of force to render you unconscious without permanently damaging that amazing brain of yours.”

“You’re Josh.  You’ve been texting me non-stop all week,” Sherlock said finally after having a hard time coming to any solid conclusions about him.  Then he blinked, tilting his head to the side.  Slick back the hair, add a black suit…  “No, no, you’re name isn’t Josh, is it?  You’re Cecil…Mycroft’s man by the flat…”

He smiled, proud of course.  He expected no less.  “And you quit answering me, so I’m afraid I got a bit…angry.  But that’s okay.  I was going to bring you home anyway.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to bring someone as amazing like you home to their family.  You are practically a legend, after all!  Ever since Mr. Holmes put me on the detail to keep an eye on your place, I’ve been fascinated by what you do.  He told me that it was the perfect first assignment, because you were terribly hard to follow and it was good training for me to tail you and watch your place.”

Sherlock blinked.  “Family?” he said, glancing around.  No one else lived in this place.  He sniffed the air though and caught a whiff of lye and…decomp.  Oh no…he thought.  “You killed those other two men, why?”

“Oh, I was practicing with them.  Because, you know, I couldn’t risk doing anything to hurt you.  The first one I found out the hard way how much of the drugs a body your size could tolerate.  And the second, I had perfected everything.  Now I have the perfect way to handle you until you decide that you reciprocate my feelings!” he exclaimed, going to a tray and picking up a syringe.  “Don’t worry, it’s just a little valium for you to relax a bit so you can’t escape so easy.  I’ve got some other cocktails but I’m going to wait and see how this works.  And if you reciprocate, then we’ll both be very happy!” he said, injecting him easily.

“Reciprocate what?” Sherlock asked, his muscles relaxing and feeling jellylike almost immediately.

“Well, my love of course, silly.  I’m head over heels in love with you, dear.  That’s why I brought you home to my parents….here I’ll bring them in,” he said and disappeared.

A moment later he wheeled in a large sized wheel chair in which two people were slumped, obviously dead for more than a week by the smell.  Both bodies were dressed in white, the woman in a dress, the man in a suit.  The smell of bleach nearly overwhelmed him.  The same as the other two victims.  Sherlock realized that he wasn’t just dealing with your average obsessed individual, no this one was completely and utterly insane.  He didn’t want money, he didn’t want power, no, he had exactly what he wanted, and had no reason to need anything else from others.  He had his prize, and Sherlock was it.  And by the looks he had an entire medical supply.

“Med student?” he asked thickly.

“Of course, you knew that already.  Remember, you told me the second text you sent me.  That’s why I love you so much!  Of course, that was before I was recruited for Mr. Holmes’ division.  But the knowledge is still up here.  You know how that is don’t you?  But enough about that, we have more important things than discussing stuffy work.  I have to go back tomorrow after all, otherwise it will look suspicious.  And now that my parents have approved, they love you by the way, we can move onward with our relationship.  I’ll go fix our first romantic dinner!”  He wheeled the chair with the dead bodies in them away from the room and Sherlock felt his body go lax, tension draining away.  He drifted to his mind palace.  At least then he could ignore the monotonous passage of time stuck here.

-oooooo-OOOOOOO-oooooo-

“So what have we got from the text messages?” John asked.

Donovan shook her head.  “The guy is bloody obsessed with him.  I’ve…wow.  I mean, I’ve seen stalkers, don’t get me wrong.  Worked plenty, but this…and in a week?  Seems like a heavy obsession to have occurred in a week.  My guess is that contacting him was the final piece of the puzzle for the guy,” she said.

John nodded.  “Makes sense.”

“I found this at our flat,” he said, pulling out a folder with hastily written notes by Sherlock.  “He was profiling him, more than likely out of curiosity, because he left no indication he thought he was dangerous,” he said sighing and picked out the paper.  “Says he is mid-twenties, possible past or present med student, studious, lives alone, only child, parents are alive and together, no obvious childhood traumas.”

He reached for the stack of texts that had been printed.  “The point Sherlock stopped answering him was when the personal questioning started.  Asking him about school was okay, he answered most with minimal explanation, but then he asks about his parents, and Sherlock said he didn’t think that was appropriate for a professional relationship like they were carrying out.  He asked a few more ‘safe’ questions and asked if Sherlock was seeing anyone.  He answered yes, but he felt that if this was going into personal life, he was going to have to stop communicating.  Then he keeps going, and it looks like Sherlock just ignored him from then on.  The texts get progressively more aggressive, and stalkerish.”

Donovan nodded.  “A lot of I’m watching you, and you should pay attention to me texting.  Pretty common for the stalker crowd, but the escalation…”

“What I don’t like is where he’s starting to indicate Sherlock is actually paying him attention. Listen, ‘I saw you look at me today.  The loneliness in your eyes told me all I need to know. You say you are seeing someone, well they aren’t here, and I am.’  Wait, this indicates someone who is in close proximity to him.  Daily, because for several days he says similar things about seeing him and knowing he was looking at him,” John said thoughtfully. 

John pulled out his phone and hit a button.  “Mycroft, I need your surveillance for the last week delivered to the Yard immediately.  And a list of all your men that are strictly on his detail.  I may need to interview them and see if they’ve seen anything.  This guy’s been stalking him for a while.  The last week was just the final stage of his obsession.”  He hung up and smiled.

Anderson came in then, a box of evidence in hand.  He sat it down and looked at John warily.  John opened and spread out the bags across the table, sorting them into piles based on relevance.  “What were the tox screens for the two victims?”

Lestrade handed him a couple sheets.  “Hrm.  First victim had traces of a lot of different drugs in his system.  Second had less, and most the drugs found were paralytics and muscle relaxers.  Holy shit,” he said, looking up.  “This is the same guy.  He was practicing.  Both the victims were the same height, build, and weight as Sherlock.  These drugs were used to figure out what worked.  He was finding a cocktail to make sure he could keep him under control without messing with his mind, the part of Sherlock he’s most interested in…”

Donovan looked at the listings and nodded.  “Makes sense…but in the end both were strangled…but it looks like victim one was in a state that would have led to his death quickly anyway.  Wait, they were both raped before…you don’t think…”

John had paled considerably.  “I do.  I think we have to find him quickly.  Very quickly.  He was enacting an obvious fantasy but the strangulation indicates that it was not satisfying at all for him, which led him to the real Sherlock.”

A few minutes later, all members of their impromptu team were secluded in a room going over reels of surveillance footage from the CCTV and security cameras where Sherlock had been.  There was even one mounted in the flat that Sherlock hadn’t discovered and destroyed.  Because he knew it would annoy her, John gave that one to Donovan while he took the streets outside the flat.

Donovan was annoyed.  She got to watch him in his home.  Wonderful.  She played the video.

Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen.  He frowned at the eggs.  “John does this so much better,” he said then dumped them out and sat on the stool, eyes pinched.  He looked up and Donovan watched as the brother came in.

“Don’t you ever knock, Mycroft?” he asked, frowning.

The older man handed him a folder.  “Threat assessment.  Quickly now, I have to decide whether he needs to be executed or put in prison.”         

“Really, Mycroft?  You know I hate these,” he grumbled and started fanning the pages.

“Were it up to me, I’d already have shot him. But I figured I’d let you have a chance to see if he’s worth leaving alive,” he said, leaning on his umbrella.

“What the hell did he do?” Sherlock asked, frowning. 

“Secrets, caught smuggling out a thumb drive with our ops for the next six months on them.  Claimed it was for a lark, but I’m unsure.”

“He’s twenty, Mycroft.  You can’t seriously be thinking of executing him?” Sherlock asked with a frown.

“Treason is an offense punishable by death, you know that. Now, tell me, is he worth keeping alive or is he beyond reason?”

“I see no reason to kill him, Mycroft.  He’s got no markers for violence, or tendencies for espionage.  Now, go on, I hate these.  I feel like I’m holding the goddamned gun when you bring me these,” he said, shoving the papers back in.  “I don’t see why you don’t just take care of them.”

“Sherlock, you know our agreement.  You do this or I make sure little freedom I let you have is taken away, you understand, right?  I have you look because you are outside the situation, and my judgment tends to lean toward the overly punitive,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock frowned.  “I don’t have to like it.  Really, why can’t you just let me live my own life for a change, Mycroft?”

“Because you are my little brother, and I promised Mummy to take care of you before she passed.”

“She didn’t bloody well mean treat me like a toddler until I was in my seventies.”

“I can’t help it that you are a prime target to get to me, as well as John, and you make yourself a target with the bloody website and working for the police.  I don’t understand why you have to do that.  You surround yourself with idiots and hand them their answers on a silver platter, and yet you still go back even though they insult, berate and at best, ignore you, Sherlock.  Really.  I already told you to come work with me, then I’ll give you the respect you deserve,” Mycroft said, sighing heavily.

“Mycroft my life isn’t all about you!  I like what I do for the cops.  I like working with them.  They just don’t understand, that’s all.”

“Then why don’t you explain to them.”

“They still wouldn’t get it, Mycroft.  You know that.  No one gets it except you and John,” he said, laying his head flat on the table.

“Hum, and you stay around them why, if they lack the intellectual capability to understand what you do?”

“Shut up, Mycroft.  I haven’t even tried.  They just think I’m another psychopath, and that’s fine.  That way there are no…messy…emotional attachments with them.  Then when they get hurt I don’t end up…there again,” he said, almost morosely.

“Yes, there again.  I really don’t want to have to pick up a lifeless body again after you go into a drug overdose because your friend died and you couldn’t stop it.  Your solution is imperfect, though.  Refusing to make friendships is going to backfire in the end.  I’m just glad I have John these days to stay with you.”

“Oh, John,” he moaned.  “He can’t get home soon enough.  I miss him so terribly and the Skype calls just are not enough, or the leaves we took in Italy.”

“Yes, well, how do you think he’ll react to the way your coworkers treat you?” Mycroft said, sitting finally.

“Um, he won’t know.  I’ll…not take him to scenes with me.  That way there’s no problems.  He’ll get a job at the local surgery or A&E and I’ll just keep my work on my own.  I really don’t want him punching someone over something so stupid.  I don’t know why he gets so mad.  It doesn’t bother me,” Sherlock said, sitting back and crossing his arms in a huff.

“It bothers him, Sherlock, and that’s enough.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have matters to attend to,” he said, picking up the folder.

“Blowing up another country?  Don’t send my boyfriend to it this time, please,” he said, standing and leaving.

“You haven’t eaten, Sherlock.”

“So?”

“Do you honestly want me to tell John you’re not eating?” he asked.

Sherlock glared at him.  “Fine, I’ll eat some toast.”

“Better than nothing, brother mine.”

Donovan watched as he did that, sighing.  So it looked like Sherlock’s life was a lot more complicated than she had originally thought…

She watched the rest of the week, seeing nothing more interesting than him running strange experiments, playing the violin at odd hours of the night, and she looked at John suddenly.

“Um, John, does he ever sleep?” she asked, realizing that in almost a week of footage, she’d seen him disappear off screen at night twice, maybe about three or four hours at a time.

“That’s one of our constant battles.  He has chronic, severe insomnia.  He can’t take sleeping pills because of the addiction possibility.  So he tries playing the violin but usually he just doesn’t sleep if I’m not home.  When I’m around…I uh…we find ways to tire him out enough to put him to sleep,” he said, giving her a wink.

Donovan’s eyes went wide at the obvious implication.  “Oh, yeah, well…nothing here.”

John nodded.  “Only people outside the flat for the week are the people assigned to watch it.  Wait…Mycroft’s people are given complete background checks when they’re hired…what if one of them...”

He moved and started shuffling through the profiles for each agent that fit what Sherlock had come up with already.  There were a stack of four agents that fit the profile and were permanently attached to Sherlock’s detail.  One with a med-school background, two with nursing backgrounds, and one with a paramedic background. 


	3. You Can't Leave Me...Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic Noncon/torture within.

Cecil had never been so happy in his life.  He’d finally done it!  It had been so complicated.  So much work…so much effort.  But how it had been worth it.  He stood in the room staring.  He’d stripped Sherlock down to his pants alone, discarding his button down shirt and trousers.  After all, it was harder to escape without clothes.  He was so beautiful…  He was unconscious and he smiled, adjusting the shackles that he hung from.  The skin was reddening there, and he could tell that his arms were strained, but now the muscles were slack.  He reached out and ran his hands gently over the firm pectorals and abdominals, and frowned, noting that his ribs were too gaunt.  It seemed his beautiful flower didn’t eat well.  That horrid doctor!  He should kill him for letting him waste away like this…  He was back now.  And he would suffer for leaving his beautiful boy to suffer alone.

His hands hesitated at the band of the black, tight fitting pants.  He sighed, running hands over the hips.  Oh, no, not yet, they hadn’t even had their first date.  He stepped back and bit into his thumbnail.  But the question was if he could wait or not?  He doubted it.  But he would at least wait for him to be awake.  He wanted his body to be pliant under him, submitting…everything he dreamed.  And he, of course, had a plan for that.  He had a beautiful plan for that… 

He sighed and took a picture of him hanging, such a lovely sight, with his phone.  He’d already disabled the GPS chip and another hidden GPS chip under the battery.  Sneaky brother Mycroft, he thought.  Of course he knew how to look for it.  He’d worked for Mycroft for about seven months now.  The day he saw him he’d never forget it, the day he fell in love once and forever.

_“Cecil?” came a voice around the corner.  He looked up at his supervisor._

_“Yeah?” he answered, slipping on the suit jacket.  He was still in shock he’d gotten the job.  True, he’d never have a family, but he was working for the government.  Under one of the most powerful men he’d never heard of._

_“Um, man, I got bad news.  I just got the assignments, and looks like you’re on Sherlock detail,” the older man said with a sigh._

_Cecil frowned, his hazel eyes widening.  “What’s Sherlock detail?”_

_Roger shifted.  “Um, you get to watch Mr. Holmes’s baby brother and make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble. Damn impossible task.  But good training, you’ll never tail a harder to follow person, even in the field.”_

_“I don’t understand, why does his brother need to be followed?” he asked._

_“I guess his fiancé is off in Afghanistan, he also works for Mr. Holmes here, and he…works with the Yard and has been kidnapped a few times…so yeah.  Just, meet Mr. Holmes out front in an hour, and he’ll give you the whole of your duties,” he said and left Cecil wondering just what this “Sherlock Detail” would entail.  He had to admit to being more than a little nervous, working directly with Mr. Holmes and his brother._

_An hour later, he stood, black suit and tie, as the immaculate Mycroft Holmes came out of the building and swept past him.  He followed, getting into the car beside him._

_“Cecil, was it?” he asked._

_“Yes, sir!” he answered._

_“You are to join the team that keeps an eye on my brother.  I must warn you, he is exceedingly against being watched, so he will attempt to shake you at every turn.  Whatever you do, if he does talk to you, do not trust what he says.  Here is the basic file.  You are given the position to watch 221B, the flat he’ll be sharing with his soon to be husband when he returns later this year.  Now, please try not to let him put you off, he can be rather…abrasive,” he said with a small smile._

_They had pulled off the road and Cecil was startled by a loud banging on the window.  He smiled tightly at the younger man._

_“Sherlock,” he said, as he lowered the window to reveal the lankier younger brother.  He was in his early thirties if Cecil didn’t miss his guess.   A mop of curly nearly black hair covered his head and his eyes were a piercing silvery blue color._

_“What do you want, Mycroft?” he growled in a lovely deep baritone voice that sent a shock through the younger man.  Oh my, he thought.  The man was beautiful._

_“Nothing, Sherlock, can’t I come by to check on you?” Mycroft asked, fiddling with the umbrella leaning against his knees._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “You aren’t checking on me, you’ve got a new idiot to watch my every move.  Stop!  I am not a child, like you seem to think I am!”_

_“Stop acting like a child, Sherlock, and I shall stop treating you like one.”_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft and snorted.  “Fine!”_

_He huffed and turned around, the long Belstaff coat he wore flapping around him as he went through the door, fixing Mycroft and his car with a glare._

_“He’s very confrontational,” Cecil observed._

_“Yes, well, do try to keep him in sight.  And if you need help, call it in without reservation.  And try to stay out of the way of the fellows from the Yard when he goes on his crime scenes,” he said and they went back to the office._

_Then he started surveillance and was more and more fascinated by him.  At night he’d play the violin.  He’d chase criminals, which almost gave his brother a heart attack, and even managed to get kidnapped a couple times on his watch, though they managed to get him out just as quickly.  But Cecil saw something in his eyes, the deep longing and loneliness.  And perhaps he shouldn’t watch the videos in his spare time of Sherlock inside the flat.  And if anyone knew he’d taken copies home; that would certainly get him in trouble.  But he found himself still, watching him on the video play haunting melodies on the violin, shuffle through cases and talk to a skull that sat on the mantle about them.  Perhaps when he found himself masturbating to the videos he came to the conclusion he’d fallen in love with him.  And decided that he would have him.  No one that abandoned him like his boyfriend did deserved him.  No, Cecil deserved him.  Every bit of him._

_The first man was an accident.  He’d bumped into him at a bar.  Jason Padver had been his name and he was the right height, weight, and had dark brown hair, though straight and shorter than Sherlock’s.  He’d dosed him with Rhyhypnol and took him home to experiment.  He found that if he laid him on his stomach, he could imagine it was Sherlock and not some stranger.  But then, when he saw his face he knew it wasn’t him, so he nearly strangled him.  The second one wasn’t an accident.  He went out seeking another man like Sherlock to test the drug cocktails on.  And he found one that worked.  This one, named Vincent Talmer, was a bit too short, and a bit too heavy, and his hair was a bit too long.  But he could imagine as long as he hid the man’s face._

_He texted him from a burner phone that week, and was furious when he stopped answering.  It didn’t matter, though._

_With all this happening, his parents were beginning to worry.  They confronted him and he lost his temper.  He was sorry, so he dressed them and made them better, like he had with his two companions.  They had to meet Sherlock after all.  He knew they would understand; they always did. His plans were solidified now that his parents were safely silent, and the second body had been dumped.  As he sat outside the hospital he waited patiently._

He removed himself from the reverie.  It was certainly a good thing that Mycroft didn’t know of this place.  It had been an abandoned house yesterday.  He’d spent the entire night making it nice in the one room for Sherlock.  After all, he wouldn’t be leaving it again until he became used to the fact that he belonged to Cecil for good now.  He’d love him like no one ever had.  And he’d never let him out of his sight.  It was too much to think of even being away for a moment.  That’s why despite what he’d thought the day before, he opted to stop going to work.  There was no purpose, after all.  He’d accomplished what Mycroft wanted.

And he was doing what Mycroft wanted now.  Protecting Sherlock.  And he’d protect him forever.  Love him forever.  Even if he had to kill him, he’d love him forever.  No one else would touch that pale flesh, he thought as his eyes roamed over the body.  Then he saw his fingers twitch.  He was waking up.  Good, it was almost time for dinner.  It had grown dark already, so he went and got their food for their first romantic dinner together.  And then, after dinner…oh he should wait.  But he didn’t think he could.

Sherlock awoke slowly, swimming through thick, muddy water, it felt like.  Darkness had encroached on the room when his eyes fluttered open.  Okay, that was definitely more sleep than he’d had in the last two weeks, he thought.  His arms ached so bad, why did his arms feel so bad?  He looked up and back and remembered.  Oh yeah, he’d tied his hands to a beam in the room above his head.  His toes were barely on the floor, so the chances of escape from such a position was impossible.  Great.  His head was still woozy anyway.  Valium, of all the things…  He had a feeling he had more potent drugs than that, however, considering what the tox screens had shown. He hovered between sleep and wake for a long time. He jolted awake with the door slamming and realized he was stripped nearly nude wearing his pants and that was it.  Wonderful, he groaned internally.

“Love!” came a voice.  “Time for our first dinner, my sweet!  I decided to set it up in here because I don’t think you’re quite ready to be running about the household just yet.  Unless you’ve decided to be good?  No, I can’t ask you that yet, you’ll lie, babe.  Now, here we are…”

Cecil rolled a cart into the room, it was decorated with a candle and wine glasses and two plates of what looked like reasonably edible Thai food. 

“I know you like Thai, so I picked it up for us.  Now, I have to tell you the rules, love.  Now, food is a privilege.  And you must pay for privileges, you know.  So for each privilege, you will pay a given amount.  Now there are all kinds of privileges, such as going to the bathroom, having a clean change of clothes, going outside, even.  But you have to pay for them, and the bigger ones cost more.  And there are punishments if you are a naughty thing, too.  Because you have to learn, of course.  And I must teach you how to love me and then you’ll be here forever,” he said, grinning and lifting a fork full of food toward Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock eyed it and looked at him.  Cecil smiled.  “Tonight is a romantic dinner for just the two of us, our first date, you know, and I won’t have you pay for it, dear.  Now, be good and eat, because if you don’t, I’ll punish you.  And I have quite a few ways to do that.  I spent a great deal of time down in the seedy parts of London frequenting some lovely little shops that sold all sorts of torturous things that I’d love to punish you with.”

Sherlock arched a brow and sighed.  He was too tired to fight so he accepted the food.  Because, of course, he was going to refuse to “pay” him for anything at all, whatever the cost, it would be no doubt more than he wanted to pay.  He wanted to make it through until John could find him.  And he knew that John would find him.  It was just a matter of when.  As degrading as being fed was, he allowed it.  He wasn’t sure what to expect from this guy.  He was deranged.  Certainly.  He wondered how he missed such an obvious psychotic person?  He should have known, but he had fooled him pretty easily. 

“Oh, my love, I…” he said, dabbing a napkin across his lips.  “I…I can’t wait for this, not anymore.  I’ve waited for so long, seven long months, and now that you’re here, I…I can’t wait.”

He put down the napkin and pressed the wine glass to Sherlock’s lips and he cautiously sipped it, only to find Cecil tipping his jaw up and practically pouring the wine into him.  He gagged, but managed not to choke on the ruby liquid.  He coughed afterward fixing him with a glare and then his head began to spin.  Oh…

“Don’t worry, it isn’t ruffies.  I don’t like that stuff.  It takes away your memory too, and I don’t want you to forget a thing about this.  Our first time has to be special, right?” he said, and reached up to a switch that lowered the bar that held the manacles.  His legs couldn’t bear his weight though as he fell to his knees, shackled hands falling limp in front of him, pain shooting through his back at the change in position.

Cecil grabbed the chains and drug Sherlock on his knees forward with him toward the bed on the opposite side of the room and Sherlock’s heart began to beat harder.  He shook his head violently and tried to pull backward, stumbling backward and away from him.

 Cecil turned back and frowned, pulling an arm back and slapping him hard, sending Sherlock’s already spinning head spinning harder until he was flat on the floor.

“Bad behavior is punished, love.  Now look, you’ve made me angry on our first night.  Oh well, may as well teach you what punishments will be in store for your misbehaviors,” he said, grasping his bicep and dragging him clumsily toward the bed, tossing him into its soft expanse. 

He affixed the chains to the wall behind the headboard, then he left, leaving Sherlock sitting on the bed, arms latched behind him, but he had enough slack that he could put them down.  Moments later he came back, a riding crop in hand.  Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“I’ve seen you work a corpse over with one before…so now, let’s see what it does to your flesh,” he said, flipping him over and tightening the chains until Sherlock’s hands were flush against the wall, crossed at the wrist painfully.

“Please, Cecil,” he whispered.  “Don’t…”

There was a loud twack and Sherlock jerked at the stinging burn on his back. 

“You will not speak unless I tell you to, my love.  Each word earns an extra lash.  Now, two more for that outburst.”

In quick succession he was hit twice more along the back of his shoulder blades.  He bit onto his lip, trying not to make any noise.  He didn’t want to give him the pleasure.

“Now, for the rest of your punishment.  Twenty lashes for insolence,” he said, reaching down and ripping his pants off of him to expose his naked backside.  Sherlock gasped at the sudden, violent exposure.

Cecil hummed and ran hands over his hips and backside.  Then he pulled his knees apart far enough that he was situated comfortably between his legs.  Sherlock’s wrists were aching where they’d crossed each other and he was about to beg…  Then the first hit landed on his ass, followed quickly in succession by four more violent ones.  Cecil paused, admiring the bright red flush and the welting white lines puffing up on his left cheek.  Then he applied five more to the right.  He smiled again.  Sherlock was panting and doing everything he could not to scream.  It was excruciatingly painful, a lot more than he expected it to be.

Then Cecil recommenced, scooting backward a little, this time laying five hits to the inside of each thigh, each one harder than the one before, the last blow landing almost at the sensitive skin at the juncture of his body and his leg.  Sherlock had laid his head against his arms and was panting, unable to move.  Whatever he’d drugged him with seemed to slow his muscles, probably a muscle relaxer again, and he knew if it weren’t for the chains he would have crumpled long ago.  He heaved thankful breaths.  He’d been counting.  Twenty.  Cecil was nothing if not meticulous.

Then he heard a rustle and the chains loosened suddenly, letting him slump face first into the plush pillows.  He felt blood dripping from his back and legs where the welts had busted open.  He panted still into the pillows and jerked as he felt his hands running over the flesh of his thighs. 

“You’re so beautiful, do you know that?  All my life, I’ve never been attracted to anyone, male or female, but you…there’s something about you…”

Sherlock felt the tears on his face.  _John, please, help me…_ he begged. 

“Please don’t do this!” he cried out as Cecil settled between his legs again. 

With a fury he didn’t expect, two hard slaps were laid with bare hand to one side of his ass, and two to the other.  “What did I say about speaking?  Every…word…will be punished.”

He whimpered into the pillows at the pain spiking through him.  He didn’t want this.  He wanted John to find him.  Only John was allowed to touch him.  Only John…

His thoughts were shattered when he felt Cecil grasp his hips and pull them upward, and in one swift move, rammed his eager and dripping cock into him with no warning whatsoever.  Sherlock couldn’t help it.  He screamed then.  He felt the immediate ripping of something and a rush of something warm.  His hands trembled in the manacles and tears streamed in sobs down his face.  Each noise was met with a hard slap of the hand to his ass or his back while Cecil sat still, buried in him to the hilt, waiting.  He ended up gasping and crying quietly as Cecil stopped slapping him and resumed bucking his hips into him roughly.

“Shh, sweetheart, just be quiet, and let me love you, I love you so much,” Cecil said, his hips punctuating each word with a thrust that sent pain shooting up and down Sherlock’s back.  Even his feet ached, cramping from the stress.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait, I just…I’ve waited so long, I love you, love you so much, but you have to be a good boy for me, good boy, okay?”

It took him forever, it seemed.  Sherlock had no idea.  It could have been ten minutes or an hour of the punishing rhythm he pummeled into his body with.  Then he stiffened above him, and Sherlock whimpered at the sting that his release caused inside him.  He sat there panting on his knees behind him for a long time it seemed before he pulled out and Sherlock gagged at the feeling of something dripping down the insides of his thighs.

 “Oh!” came Cecil’s voice.  “My love, I’m sorry!  Look what you made me do!” he gasped, leaping from the bed suddenly.  Sherlock’s legs gave out and he slumped down into a pool of dampness that had gathered below him.  “I’m so sorry,” he head as Cecil came and began wiping him.  The tang of blood was heavy in the air.  “I didn’t mean to be so rough with you, look I’ve made you bleed,” he said, his voice so gentle now. 

Slowly he cleaned him and then stripped the dirty comforter from the bed.   Thankfully, the sheets underneath survived unscathed, but Sherlock was vaguely worried at the amount of blood left on the cover.  He wasn’t sure what was from the riding crop beating and what was from the raw and rough way he’d taken him.  He had never been in this much pain after him and John did this sort of thing.  But John was so careful and made him feel so wonderful…this was horrible.

He was flipped over to his back which he groaned immediately as the sheets pressed into the bruised and broken flesh.  “Here, love,” he said, turning him back over.  “We’ll bandage this so we don’t get the sheets all bloody.  I almost forgot!”  He slowly applied a pad with paper tape over his back before he turned him once more onto his back painfully.

Sherlock’s body was leaden.  He had no idea what to do to make it work.  Whatever Cecil had given him seemed to stop his ability to use most of his voluntary muscle groups.  He whimpered when he touched his hair and wanted to run from him, but he could barely move.  The shackles were secured above his head, and to his disappointment, a pair were attached to his ankles and secured at the foot.  He had about an inch of movement in each and that was it.

“One of the rewards of my love is to sleep in the bed,” Cecil said, petting his hair thoughtfully.  “I promise, tomorrow night I won’t be so rough.  But if you make me angry, I can’t promise anything.”

He shivered violently as he was pulled against Cecil’s body, to which he responded by cooing and comforting him, as though he hadn’t just violently raped him moments before.  The tears came then and all Sherlock could think of was John’s face.  John would come find him.  He would rescue him.  He was sure of it.  John loved him more than anything.  John was everything.  He cried silently until no more tears would fall and unconsciousness claimed him into a world of fitful nightmares.

-oooooo-OOOOOOO-oooooo-

Mycroft stood with a look of deep regret.

“Cecil didn’t come to work today.  His apartment is cleared out of everything, and his parents’ home is empty as well.  He has no other known addresses and we have surprisingly little to go on.  There was a buzz in John’s pocket and he saw that it was from Sherlock’s mobile.

“What?” he muttered.  “From Sherlock’s phone,” he said, opening Sherlock’s phone and regretting it immediately.

He opened the picture and bit his lip.  “Fucker.  He’s playing with us.”

He handed the phone to Mycroft who Lestrade looked over the shoulder of.  It was Sherlock, hanging by his wrists from a set of shackles against a wall.  He was obviously unconscious.  There weren’t any marks on him, though, which was a good thing, and considering he’d been stripped to just his pants, it would have been easy to tell.  There was a message with it.

_John, you don’t deserve him.  He’s far too beautiful for you, too good for you.  You left him here alone, and so many nights he missed you.  No, he isn’t yours any longer.  Today, he’s mine, forever mine, and you can’t take him from me.  He’ll never leave me.  Even if we have to die together, we’ll never part again, John._

John locked eyes with Mycroft.  “This guy is dangerous.  We’ve got to find him.  What about the GPS on his phone, he’s obviously still using it?”

Mycroft shook his head.  “He’s disabled both the internal GPS and the tracker installed under the battery like all my agents, and he’s turning it off and removing the battery.  Unless we can catch him while he’s using it…we can’t even triangulate his position.  I trained the man, after all.”

Several hours later an alarm sounded from Mycroft’s phone.  “He’s using it now, John, it’s come on,” he said, on his own phone immediately.  John held up the phone and a picture was received again.  His hands shook as he opened it and dropped the phone to the desk.

Lestrade picked it up and cringed.  This time Sherlock was definitely not unharmed.  He was lying on a bed this time, arms locked above his head in the same manacles, but blood was steadily running down his arms from them.  He was pushed over onto his side, a sheet laying low on his hips, but they could see that his back was bleeding, and his buttocks were covered in welts where they could see it above the sheet. He was unconscious again, but his face was sporting a blackening bruise on his jaw.

 _He’s stubborn, but I’ll teach him to behave.  I do enjoy that part, punishing him.  But I made it up to him, don’t worry John, I’m taking good care of him now.”_  


	4. Playmates

****

He honestly did not want to move.  He wanted to stay silent and unconscious as long as he could.  He didn’t want Cecil to even realize he was alive.  He just wanted to be left alone…  But it would not be that he would be left in peace because the drapes were flung back and despite his attempts, he cringed from the sudden light as it flooded his aching eyes.  He whimpered as pain flared bright and harsh throughout his brain.

“Good morning, love!” Cecil spoke in a cheery voice, completely bereft of malice, as if he were waking his lover from a night of love.  Instead of a night of torture of his captive victim.

Sherlock looked up and blinked at him.  The blood had dried on his arms during the night and it itched madly.  He swallowed a lump in his throat because Cecil had that manic grin on his face that Sherlock was certain meant no good for him.  Especially now.

“Now, would you like some breakfast?” he asked, grinning.

Sherlock felt his stomach lurch at the thought of food.  He shook his head slowly and grimaced as a wave of nausea flooded him.  In fact, his stomach was a mess for a myriad of reasons, and he was relatively certain that one of those was whatever he’d done the night before to his insides.  There were sharp lances of pain shooting through his lower abdomen.  And if he ate anything, it was going to get worse.

“Oh, not feeling well, love?” Cecil said, his face dropping into a mask of concern that would look convincing on anyone else. 

He sat down beside him and went to put a hand on Sherlock’s forehead.  Sherlock couldn’t help it, he flinched back from him and blinked rapidly.  Cecil frowned, brows knitting and the left eye twitched.

“Love, what’s wrong?” he cooed, leaning closer, and with the shackles, Sherlock couldn’t move away.  “You aren’t scared of me are you?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched.  What kind of question was that? He wanted to scream at him, but he really didn’t want to have him fly off the handle in rage at him again.

Cecil frowned.  “You aren’t as cooperative as I’d like, Sherlock.  Really, what do I have to do?  Maybe…maybe I should kidnap one of your little friends from the Yard.  Would that help?”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head.   “What…what do you mean?” he whispered, not daring to speak louder but unable to keep his mouth shut.

“Well, you do care about your little friends, so maybe I should go get you a playmate so you aren’t so lonely, what do you think, love?  Would that make you feel better?  I think it would.  After all, if you had someone that you could talk to when I’m not here, it should put you in a better mood…yes, but who should it be…” he mumbled, standing up and walking out the door leaving Sherlock shivering in the bed wondering what in the name of all that wasn’t holy he intended to do.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

John woke with a start in the seat he’d fallen asleep the night before crammed into.  He hadn’t gone home, how could he?  The others had, of course, Donovan and Anderson had left just after one in the morning, and Mycroft had headed out to try and dig up something on this Cecil fellow that they were sure was the obsessed individual that had kidnapped him.  They had called in a couple personal friends that were going to be in to interview today, including an ex-girlfriend.  Hopefully, she could shed some light on what was going on in his head.

“Oi, Mate, the girl’s here,” Lestrade said, ducking his head into the conference room they’d used the night before.

John nodded and headed down to Lestrade’s office.  A pretty girl of about twenty five or so sat demurely in the seat nervously.  She was simple and plain, wearing a yellow jumper and a pleated black skirt.  Her mousy brown hair was done up in a complicated French braid and she wore neutral shades of make-up.  She turned her unassuming brown eyes on John as he entered and sat in the chair off to the side.

“Jenny, this is John Watson, he’s involved with the investigation into your ex-boyfriend Cecil’s whereabouts,” Lestrade said with a nod.

“I don’t know what he’s done, but I haven’t seen him in two months.  We broke up because of that awful job he has,” she said with a sigh.

John nodded.  “What do you know about Cecil’s job?”

“I know he was never not working, if he wasn’t at work, he was in his office ‘reviewing video’.  He couldn’t tell me what he was doing, of course, but it was annoying.  He spent more time watching those videos than he did anything else, and it wasn’t anything interesting even, just some bloke in a flat,” she said with a sigh.  “I wasn’t supposed to see them, but he fell asleep in front of the computer all the time, and so I watched a bit one night.  Nothing interesting about it, but I couldn’t pry him off the stupid computer.”

John frowned.  “Was this the bloke?” John asked, handing her a picture of Sherlock.

“Yeah, that’s him, always the same one, you know,” she said, handing it back.  “He looks familiar, have I seen him somewhere else?”

John looked at Lestrade.  “Those videos of the flat should have never left the office, if he had been caught smuggling copies out, he would have been arrested for treason.  Getting what we did took a special order to have them released to the Yard.”

Jenny frowned.  “Wait, he wasn’t supposed to be watching those videos?”

John shook his head.   “No, this man, Sherlock, is the brother of Cecil’s boss.  Cecil’s assignment was a protection detail, to make sure nothing happened to him.  The watching of surveillance videos fell to others.  Cecil shouldn’t have had those at all.  To be honestly, he didn’t have clearance to even watch them.”

“That explains a few things,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked, leaning forward with a frown etching his face.

Jenny licked her lips.  “I mean, he just couldn’t not talk about him.  I mean, all the time…wait, that’s it, the website, he showed me a website about the guy…about deduction or something.”

John nodded.  “Yes, that’s Sherlock’s website.  What kind of things did he talk about?”

She shook her head.  “Well, at first, he would just talk about having to keep an eye on an annoying git instead of doing any real work.  Then he just would start talking about music, and listening to violin music all the time at home.  Got really annoying…  And then he just would talk about this deduction stuff all the time and how great it was and how he admired the guy he was watching.  And it just got worse, so when he stopped even coming out of the computer room to eat or sleep, that’s when I moved out.  I am not sure he even noticed when I left,” she said thoughtfully.

“Jenny, this is really important, I need to know if there is anywhere that Cecil would go to and hide out.  His parents’ house is empty, and so is his flat.  Is there anywhere else he could have gone?” John said, leaning forward and resting hands on his knees.

She thought for a long moment.  “No, not that I know of.  He did favor staying outside London when we went on trips, though.  Kept talking about being away from cameras or something to get real privacy.”

“Alright, thanks, Jenny,” Lestrade said, handing her a card.  “If you can think of anything, anything at all, give me a call.”

She stood and looked back.  “What is all this?  Has he done something wrong?”

John swallowed.  “Yeah, he’s kidnapped Sherlock, and we’ve got to find him quickly before he does something drastic.”

She smiled sadly and nodded, leaving just as a man was shown into the room next.  Lestrade stood and extended a hand.  “Robert Flankton, I presume?” he said with a smile.

The man was tall and reed thin, with messy blond hair and dull gray eyes.  He nodded and sat down, glancing at John.  John recognized him.  “Rob.  Long time no see,” he said with a cold expression.

“You know each other?” Lestrade said with a quirk of his silver eyebrow.

“Of course, we do, Rob,” John said with a bit of a quirk to his lip.

“Yes, I’m familiar with Captain Watson,” he said, looking away from the shorter man.

John looked at Lestrade.  “I was touring the training facility Rob here was at not long before he was hired on by Mycroft.  He decided to have a little fun with Sherlock.  It didn’t turn out well for him,” he said, seeing the subtle shake in the man’s hand.  “I’m sure you understand how well I take to people making fun of him.”

The man didn’t make eye contact.  “It was a stupid dare, Captain, I know you still are angry, but…”

“I’m not here to talk about that,” John said.  “I need to know what you know about Cecil, your ex-partner.”

He looked up then.  “Cecil?”

John nodded.  “Yes.  I’m sure you remember what assignment he was given.”

“Yeah, he was put on Sherlock detail…and last I heard, he was actually enjoying it, which surprised the hell out of the rest of us.  No one likes to be on that detail.  He’s harder than hell to tail, and always getting into trouble,” he said with a shrug.  “The rest of us took it as a punishment, but when we saw him he said it was great and he wouldn’t trade the detail for anything else.”

“Well, it seems he became a little obsessed with my boyfriend,” John said with a sigh.  “He kidnapped him day before yesterday, and we’re having a hard time locating him.  He’s already sent us this,” he said, handing a paper copy of the two pictures with the accompanying message below.

Rob put a hand to his mouth.  “Oh god, I should have known when he started saying things about you, Captain.”

“What did he say?” Lestrade asked, pulling out his pad and paper to make more notes.

Rob handed the pictures back.  “He’d just say something about how bad it was you left him all alone, and how you were a terrible boyfriend to run off on him, and all this stuff like that.  We just put it up to him being overly involved with the assignment, I mean, it is pretty easy to get attached to a mark we’re protecting…”

“Well, he’s taken it to the next step.  Any ideas where he might have taken him?” John said with a sigh.

Rob thought for a moment.  “I know that he used to say he liked to go out to a deserted area outside of town…here, you have a map?”  Lestrade handed him one and he pointed out an area.

“Well, here,” Lestrade said, handing him a card.  “Let me know if you think of anything that might help,” he said with a sigh.  Rob nodded and left quietly when the phone on the desk chimed, Sherlock’s phone.

John looked at in and gasped.  “Oh holy fuck,” he said handing it to Lestrade.

It was a picture of a man and woman bound, gagged, and blindfolded, sitting back to back, their hands zip tied together between their backs.  There was no mistaking the mop of brown curls that belonged to Sally Donovan or the short dark hair of Phillip Anderson.

_He needed some playmates, so I went and found some for him.  Hope they’re up to my games…I tend to be a little rough with my playmates.  Especially the ones I don’t really care about.  But then, you found my other playmates._

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Donovan had been at Anderson’s the night before.  His wife was out of town again, so she spent the night with him.  The day had been hard and they both needed the mutual comfort and release that came with a night of rough sex with each other.  It wasn’t unusual.  They sought each other out with frequency when there was time or when they were too stressed.  Anderson’s wife being gone helped in that, because then they didn’t have to spring for a hotel.  She remembered waking up slowly that morning and going down to make coffee wearing Anderson’s shirt, humming to herself, then there was a bright pain in her head and she was out.  Anderson had never woken up, a sedative applied before he even had a chance.

She groaned and tried to roll her head on her shoulders only to bump into someone else’s head.  She winced as the pain flared in the wound on the back of her head.

“Phillip?” she said softly.  “Phillip?  Is that you?”

An answering groan confirmed that it was indeed Anderson behind her.  “Sally?” he said in a slurred voice.  “The hell happened?”

“I think we’ve been kidnapped…” she said softly.

“Now, that’s a rude way to put it!” came a voice from the doorway. 

They looked up to see the man from the photograph they’d seen the night before.  Cecil…something.  Donovan couldn’t remember his name.  Great.  They’d been kidnapped by the freak’s obsessed fan.  But why?

“What are we doing here?” she demanded.

Cecil walked in and smiled.  “Well, my love gets bored so easily, so I decided he needed some playmates.  And you two were so easy to get to, I couldn’t resist.”

He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt, but Donovan couldn’t miss the glint in his eyes.  “Playmates?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I can’t let him get bored.  He might get naughty, and then I have to get mad at him.  And I don’t want to do that.  It would kill me if I killed him accidently.  That’s where you two come in.  If he makes me too angry, I can just take it out on you, then I won’t kill him.  I mean, it won’t get him out of being punished of course, but it will keep me from hurting him too much.  And you know, he might be a good boy if he knows you’ll get hurt.  We’ll see.  He seems quite attached to you two.  Now, along you come,” he said, leaning down and slicing through the zip ties around their ankles. 

Donovan was pulled up first, the tie between here and Anderson’s wrists severed quickly.  She was still wearing nothing but Anderson’s dress shirt that barely came to the upper part of her thighs.  She reddened as she realized this, and glanced over to see Anderson wasn’t faring much better, left in his boxers and nothing else as he was hauled up to his feet.

Cecil pushed them both to stumble in front of him and held the knife to Donovan’s throat.  “Now, no silliness, my dears, otherwise I’ll cut her pretty throat here.  Down the hall, turn into the next room on the right, Anderson, dear.”

They were steered into a complete room, surprising them both.  The last room had been ramshackle and obviously an abandoned building.  But this room was dressed.  It was a large double suite, a couch and table and chairs in the front and a bed in the further back, and an attached en suite bathroom in the very back of the room.  The room itself was painted recently; a cream color and draperies were thrown wide on the two sets of double windows.  The pair could see the covered form in the bed they recognized from the picture he’d sent the night before.

There was a partition of sorts between the living area and the bed area, and it had a half wall with steel poles that ran up from the end into the ceiling.  Cecil turned each of them around and clamped a handcuff on one of their wrists and then attached a chain to the pole, giving them some freedom to move, and the ability to sit on the couch that was against the half wall.

“Now, to let my love know that he has friends!” he said, clapping once with the silver knife between his palms. 

He moved over and crawled onto the bed.  Donovan and Anderson could just see the mop of dark curls on the pillow and Sherlock’s hands jutting out in a shackle above his head.

“Love, come on now, you’ve slept in long enough,” Cecil said into his ear.  When he didn’t move, Cecil frowned and pulled down the sheet a bit, uncovering part of his back and took the silver knife and dug it into one of the wounds, causing him to gasp and try and pull away, yanking on the tight chains that didn’t give.

“There, now don’t ignore me, love,” he said, leaning over and licking the fresh blood from his back.  Donovan didn’t miss the shudder that passed over him.  “I brought you a present, some friends to play with…”

Sherlock’s head jerked up and his eyes went wide when he saw both Donovan and Anderson staring at him.  He grimaced and laid his head back down silently, surprising both of them.

“Aren’t you happy?” Cecil asked, reaching up and taking his hair into a grip and yanking his head backward.  He swallowed hard and stared at him. 

“Let them go, please,” he said finally.    “Just let them go, they don’t need to be…”

His words were cut off when Cecil lashed out and backhanded him.  “How many, love?”

Sherlock winced and swallowed, only to hit again.  “Thirteen,” he said finally. 

“Good, thirteen, yes, thirteen.  Choose, you or them?” he said and Sherlock turned to him with wide eyes.  “What?”

“You choose, thirteen for you, or one of them?” Cecil said, standing and moving over to the dresser where he’d stored the crop from the night before.

“Me,” he said softly.

“See, I knew you’d be like this, love, they doubted me, but I didn’t, not for one minute…thirteen words…thirteen lashes…” he said, turning around and slapping the crop against his hand.

Donovan’s eyes widened and she looked at Anderson who had a similar look of shock on his face. 

“Please, don’t do that, he’s already weak!  You’re going to kill him!” Donovan said as Cecil pushed Sherlock onto his stomach and pulled the sheet back down to drop it on his waist.  He yanked the chain and pulled his hands up flush to the wall again.

“How many?” Cecil practically purred, tracing the crop against the already torn skin on his back. 

“Thirteen,” he said again.

“Nope.  Count again, love,” he said, caressing the skin gently.  “I think I’ll need more space now…” he said, pulling the bottom of the sheet up to reveal the backs of his legs.  He tucked it around his waist and under his front.

Sherlock gulped, counting Donovan’s words quietly.  “Twenty five,” he said finally.

“Good,” he said.  “Words equal lashes, don’t they, my love?  Don’t worry, after this, you can rest until dinner, if you decide to pay for it.  And pay for your playmate’s dinner, of course….”

He striped five lashes down each side of his back, followed by five on the back of each thigh.  By the time he got to twenty, Sherlock was choking and biting into his lip to keep from screaming.  The already tender flesh was now bleeding anew, and he felt the blood already weeping from the reopening wounds on his wrists and ankles.  He then struck twice on each calf, and then applied one extremely hard hit directly to the small of his back, making him finally scream.

He descended into a panting mess trying to cling to consciousness.  He couldn’t see the reactions of the two Yarders behind him.  Anderson was trying very hard to look away, and Donovan was standing shocked still with tears in her eyes.  Cecil turned and smiled.  “You’ll learn too.”


	5. Payments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank every one of you that read this.
> 
> However, I do have a favor to ask. I'm looking to get my original Yaoi Novel, On the Training of Doctors, published this year. I would appreciate it if you would help make it a success. My original fiction is more detailed and polished, of course, than my fanfics, and I have both an amazing co author and artist. Please visit goo.gl/VS2QQs or look up On the Training of Doctors on Kickstarter.

 

Pain was definitely becoming a constant companion, but then so was the encroaching weakness in his muscles.  He wished he would stop giving him whatever cocktail he’d come up with because he could barely move enough to take the pressure off his shoulder so the feeling would return to his hands.  He was sure that the rest of the day was going to be miserable.  He had no idea where the sadistic bastard had disappeared to but he hoped he stayed there.   He tried to adjust and groaned instead and muttered under his breath.

“Sherlock?” came Anderson’s voice.

“Go away,” he muttered.  “M’tired.”

“Sherlock, remember, Anderson?” he continued.

Sherlock blinked.  “Oh that’s right,” he muttered, straining and managing to roll a bit to the side as far as the leg chain would allow.  “John has to hurry up…”

“They’re working on it, Sherlock, they’re going as fast as they can…” Donovan’s voice came tightly.  

Sherlock sighed.  “Not fast enough.  Everything has a cost he says.  So now there are you two.  He’s going to use you to make sure I do what he wants.  He’s smart.  He’s been watching everything I do for the last seven months.  There isn’t much he doesn’t know about me.”

“He’s insane,” Donavon said, frowning deeply from her position on the couch they were chained to.  “Payments, what did he mean by that?”

Sherlock swallowed.  “He says everything has a price, and if I pay it, then I get it, so being on the bed, food, all of it, he says it has a cost, and I don’t know what kind of cost he’s talking about…”

Anderson stared away from Sherlock and shook his head.  “There has to be something we can do.  I mean, really, there has to be,” he said softly.  “There’s no way John is going to find this place, it’s an abandoned building.  He’s made this room up to look finished but the rest of it is run down and falling apart.”

“He’s taken me away from Mycroft’s zone of influence,” Sherlock said, feeling that there was no way that this was going to end anytime soon if he was half as smart as he thought he was.  “I can’t even think straight,” he muttered.

The door opened and closed causing Donavan and Anderson to both glance in the direction of the door where their utterly insane captor came in with a small zipper back in his hands.  He passed them and sat down beside Sherlock’s head.

“Baby, I see you’re awake!” he said cheerfully.  Sherlock bit the side of his cheek to keep from snapping back at him.  “Good, good, so, are we having breakfast?”

Sherlock just stared at him.  He didn’t know whether to answer him or not.  He lashed out and slapped him.  “Speak when I’ve asked a question, or I will give you twenty lashes before we’ve even started the day.”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“Ah, well payment for breakfast is pretty simple, love.  A kiss is all I ask, and I’ll let you and your playmates have a nice cuppa and some biscuits for brekky.  How about it?” he said, smiling with fluttering eyelashes.

Sherlock felt sick but he nodded.  “Okay, that’s fine.”

Cecil smiled then and leaned down and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s but instead of a simple kiss, he pressed his tongue hard against Sherlock’s lips, causing him to wince but open his mouth for him.  He supposed it was one kiss, but it seemed to go on forever, and Sherlock just wanted him done.  Finally, he bit down hard on Sherlock’s tongue causing him to yelp and left blood running down his chin.

“Oh, sorry, love, I got a little, enthusiastic…” he said, grabbing a towel and blotting his chin of the blood.  Sherlock just stared at him.  There was no way to predict him at all.  Nothing at all…

“Alright, time for some brekky!” he announced and pulled a cart into the room with tea and a plate of biscuits.  Sherlock rested his head on the pillow and wondered what the next payment would be.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

John woke with a start.  They had to figure this out.  They just had to.  He looked up to see Mycroft.  He smiled.  “Hey, John, I have some good news.  I think we’ve got a possible location.”

Before the sentence was even finished, John was up and out of his seat.  “How?” He asked as they ran to the SUV waiting for them.

“Cecil wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.  When he kidnapped Anderson and Donavan, he left behind evidence of his location from the muck on his tires.  We’ve got six buildings, but we’re pretty sure they’re in one of them.  Definitely our best lead so far.”

John nodded, taking a pistol from Mycroft and checking that the chamber was loaded and so was the clip.  He put it into the holster under his jacket.  The ride took longer than he would have liked, and it was after lunch before they arrived at the first house.  After the fifth house, it was almost dark.  There was one more possible location, and they had to try.  It was their last chance.

Something told John they had the right place when they saw the fresh car tracks.  The car wasn’t present that they could see, but there were plenty of out buildings where a car could be kept relatively easily.  He looked at Mycroft.  “What’s the best course here?  He’s got three hostages, and has your training,” he muttered as they closed in on the only place with light in the building that they could see for miles.

Mycroft sighed.  “We have to try and take him down as fast as possible, or remove the hostages.  So everyone has tranq guns on them to take down hostages to make them less useful as shields for him.  He’s unstable, so I honestly don’t know how this will play out, John, I really don’t.”

John swallowed hard.  He was so unsure, so very unsure...  He just wanted his Sherlock back.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

By lunch time, Sherlock was fading in and out.  He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or his body going into shock from the beating he’d taken.  The bed moved again, and Cecil sat beside him and petted his hair softly.

“So my love, are you going to be a good boy if I unchain you?” he asked.  Sherlock nodded, thinking there wasn’t much of a chance he could even stand, let alone run.

Cecil removed the shackles one at a time and then pulled Sherlock to sit up against the headboard.  Sherlock winced at the pain across his back.  Cecil smiled at him very sweetly.  Both Anderson and Donavan sat quietly but didn’t move their eyes.

“Love, I know you say you won’t try and run, but I just can’t trust you, so I’m going to make sure I can leave you unchained and not have to worry,” he said, tilting his head to the side.  “Which leg?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head a little.  “What?”

“Which leg?  Pick one.  Right or left?” he said again, patting his knees.

“Um, right?” he said, shaking his bleary head.

Cecil nodded and grabbed the small zippered bag he’d brought in earlier and pulled out a syringe.  He looked at it and then injected Sherlock’s leg quickly.  A few minutes later, he felt the distinct head rush of morphine.  He started to ask what was happening when he realized that Cecil had a hammer.  Sherlock blinked slowly and heard Anderson scream as he brought it down with a sickening crunch on his ankle.  He opened his mouth as blood sprayed everywhere from the impact and he saw bone splinter.  He realized his foot had sometime while the drugs messed with him been put on a small table to keep it steady. 

It didn’t really hurt that much, but he knew he was higher than he’d ever been before so he probably would have been intense pain otherwise.  Cecil was muttering on and on but he didn’t understand any of it as he set the bones and wrapped his ankle with a bandage.  Finally, he felt Cecil slap him and he looked up at him dully.

“I said this is why I don’t like powerful drugs,” he said.  “So now, I think you owe me payment for dinner, my love,” Cecil said and Sherlock realized he was on his back but he had no memory of being put on his back.

Anderson and Donavan were looking away as Cecil crawled over Sherlock’s limp body.  He would twitch now and then but otherwise he was so out of it that there was no way he could even resist anything Cecil did.

“See, there, love, not so bad when you’re a good boy,” he said softly, pushing his legs to his chest and giving Sherlock his love.  That was how he thought of it, that it was a gift of his love.  He wondered if it was all worth it, keeping him lucid?  Wouldn’t it just be easier to drug him?  He was so beautiful and intelligent.  He smiled.  He’d be happier if he was drugged, and he could keep him safe easier.

He sighed his release and fell away and thought he’d just do that.  Eventually, his will would break and he’d be his slave forever without all the punishment and work.  He sighed, grabbing the syringe bag and plunged another dose into his leg.  That should keep him sedate while he was working on getting things ready to move them.

He stopped and stared at Anderson and Donovan.  “I’m so sorry, I’ve decided you are unnecessary.  My dear love and I will leave tonight, and I’ll shoot you both first,” he said and smiled widely.  “I’m of the opinion I’ll just keep my lover drugged and happy, what do you think?”

“He won’t be happy like that!” Donovan said with a wide eyed look.

“He’ll learn to be happy.  He’s mine, now after all.  I’ll be back for him, but I won’t kill you in front of him, I don’t want him to see that,” he said with a smirk.

Both Anderson and Donavan screamed after him.  There was no response from Cecil.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

John was the first one through the door.  The windows were covered and they were moving in on the only lit rooms inside.  The suited and armed men were flooding the place.  They’d found his vehicle, and had it locked down outside.  Now it was only a matter of getting to Sherlock and the others before Cecil could hurt them.

John burst into the second lit room and saw Donavon and Anderson staring at him with wide eyes.  Both suddenly relaxed, though and slumped against each other on the seat.  The rest of the room was empty.  John ran toward them and pulled the gags off both of their mouths. 

“Where is he?” he asked, franticly.

“He’s…he’s gone…he came in here ten minutes ago, he took Sherlock and said he was going to come kill us so they could leave.  We thought you were him,” Anderson stammered.

“Mycroft!” he called into the radio.  “They’re on the move, tell me you got him!”

There was a much too long pause.  “John…” came the garbled reply.

“Fuck!” the doctor yelled as he ran back out toward where they’d secured the car.

Mycroft was standing, looking groggy and holding a pack on his head against the small car that belonged to Cecil.

“What the fuck happened?” John asked.

Mycroft blinked.  “He got one of our SUVs, I don’t know how, but…but…he came from behind, I don’t know how, he wasn’t that good, at least, he wasn’t supposed to be…” he muttered, pulling the red ice pack away from his head for a moment.  “He ripped out the tracer box and the dashboard GPS.  He knew where to find them, and he’s gone, John, he’s gone.”

“You mean, he’s gone?  He’s got Sherlock and he’s in the wind?”  John said, eyes wide and heart racing.

Mycroft nodded slowly.  “I’m sorry John…” he said softly.


End file.
